16. Chapter Sixteen #3
“I know I have no right,” I say, my voice raw. “I am aware of that. I know I hurt her. I’m probably the last person you want near her. I swear to God, if you tell me to get on my fucking knees, I will. If you tell me to leave afterward, I will. But please let me see her.”
Graham stares at me.
“She was dying on a bathroom floor,” he says, each word rougher than the last. “And you want to see her because you feel guilty?”
“No, I want to see her because she’s Willow.”
Graham looks away and when his eyes cut to the guys standing behind me I can feel every inch of how much he fucking hates me.
Fair enough. I hate myself, too.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Elise speaks from behind him, her voice barely audible. “Graham.”
He closes his eyes.
I don’t know what passes between them. Years of marriage, maybe. Years of loving the same daughter. Of knowing what she would want, even when it guts them to give it.
When Graham looks back at me there is no forgiveness on his face.
“You get five minutes,” he says. “If she wakes up and wants you gone, you leave. If I tell you to leave, you leave. If you make one part of this about you, like you always fucking do, I swear to God, Phoenix, I will drag you out of here myself.”
I nod. “I won’t fight you.”
His eyes narrow. It’s possible he’s waiting for the smirk or the smartass comeback. The part where I put my cocky little mouth between me and the truth. A truth that has worked on crowds, women, reporters, cops, my own fucking reflection.
But cockiness never followed me to the hospital. It died somewhere between seeing the headline and realizing I might lose Willow.
“I mean it,” I say, the words coming out so quiet they almost don’t sound like mine. “If she wants me gone, I’m gone. If you want me gone, I’m gone. I just need to see her breathe.”
Graham studies me as if he doesn’t believe a single word I say.
I don’t blame him. I have been a selfish asshole for years and he has had a front-row seat to the show.
Then he steps aside. “Room 514.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
It is the weakest thing I have ever said, yet somehow the heaviest.
By the time I reach 514, my hands are shaking.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
That is the first thing I notice.
Willow has never been quiet. There has always been something moving around her. A pen tapping. A foot bouncing. A gaze that told me I was full of shit before her mouth even got there.
Now she lies still in bed. Her hair spills across the pillow and there are tubes and wires and a monitor doing its job beside her.
I hate every beep. Every line. Every medical piece of evidence that her body has become something people need machines to monitor. Her mouth is soft and colorless. Her lashes rest against her cheeks.
And I stand here, useless as shit.
My knees almost give out. I catch myself before they do and walk to the chair beside her bed. I sit before the floor decides to come up and meet me.
For a while, I just stare at her and my chest aches so badly I press a fist against it. As if I can hold it together by force.
My Willow.
I reach for her hand. Her fingers are cold against mine.
When I finally lift my head, the guys are near the doorway. They don’t come all the way in, but they don’t leave either.
Jax has one hand over his mouth. Cruz looks at the floor, as if he can’t bear to see the bright, beautiful girl lying there. Jett stands frozen and silent, not quite believing what he sees.
The chair creaks under me.
My thumb glides over her knuckles.
The hand that wrote our songs. The hand that shoved me in the chest when I teased her throughout our teenage years. The hand that gripped my hair when I made her fall apart beneath me.
My throat burns. “Wills.”
Her name comes out fucked. Broken in places I didn’t know my voice could break. Tears slip down my face but I don’t bother wiping them away. The guys have never seen me like this. But I don’t care.
Let them look. Let them watch the king of bad ideas and worse apologies finally lose a fight to a girl who is not even awake. Because all I care about is her.
I lean in closer, still holding her hand.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper. “You hear me? You don’t get to leave me. Not after making me stand outside your door like a desperate asshole.”
My voice shakes. “You can hate me. Fine. You should, after what I did to you. You can tell me to fuck off or throw something at my head. You can tell Graham to break my jaw and I’ll stand there and let him, because, honestly, he has earned the right.”
My grip tightens around her hand.
Two months without her nearly gutted me. A lifetime would bury whatever remains of me.
“Willow,” I say begging now.
I press my forehead to the back of her hand. For once, I don’t know how to be anything but truthful. I lift my head, wipe my face with the heel of my hand, and lean in close enough that if she were awake, she would tell me I’m crowding her.
My mouth gets close to her ear. The words crawl out, desperate, stupid. The only way I know how to say them now. “Don’t you fucking die on me. I haven’t loved you properly yet.”